


The Storyteller

by GoofyGoldenGirl



Category: Journey into Mystery, Loki: Agent of Asgard, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universes, Books, Gen, Journey into Mystery - Freeform, Kid Loki, Libraries, Loki: Agent of Asgard (2014) #13, Meta, Redemption, Storytelling, Writing, blood writing, god powers, stories, you can say this is a love letter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoofyGoldenGirl/pseuds/GoofyGoldenGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>From the first sound to the first letter, Loki was there. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storyteller

From the first sound to the first letter, Loki was there.

Hiding in the corner as he looked over the shoulders of mothers telling stories of dragons, knights, and fair maidens to their children.

Mingling in the crowd as the elders told tales of old around the warmth of the fire or the heater. 

Of the mighty and the weak who looked and appealed to the crowds; of congregations and subjects, juries and armies ,fabricating their life and goals to gain a power denied to them.

Turning his head as he walked past friends who whispered half truths and scandalous lies. 

Appearing before writers lost on their luck. As the flicker of inspiration in the candlelight, the silhouette of a muse the author once loved, or in the flesh through blurred and sleep deprived eyes.

For Loki was the god of stories, and thus it was his duty to witness every tale. He would listen, not missing a word, paying attention to how it was told, to what was emphasized, downplayed, and most importantly, how the story was received. And then he recorded it.

He kept these stories in a library that existed at the point where time and space crossed together. It encompassed infinity itself. The shelves stretched for miles along the walls, filled with books that were dated from all eras of time, and from every single universe that was and will ever be. And each book carried an enchantment: to manifest as thoughts, ideas, and dreams to those who wished to pass on stories just like him, from the child at play to the nobel peace prize winner. 

For centuries he toiled until he decided that for once, he would be the one to record a story of his own. 

Sitting at his desk, Loki took a knife and pricked his pointer finger on his left hand. He held it over the inkwell, letting the blood drip in until it was completely full. With his right hand, dipped his quill in and grabbed a fresh sheet of paper. He made the first stroke. 

_Why did Loki do it? No one knows..._

And on Loki wrote. He wrote of a boy, scared and alone, who had blood on his hands from a life he could not remember. He wrote of a goodness and an innocence in the boy's heart and a wish of redemption. Of thrilling adventures as the boy fought serpents, nightmares, and worlds that burned. Of love and companionship as the boy sought solace in his brother he idealized, a cold hearted girl who was his only friend, a wild dog who could not be tamed, and a bird imagined or not that cawed advice into his ear. And of the consequences of fate and suffering: of life, death, and all in-between. 

And the more he wrote, he more his pointer finger bled until the drops of blood cascaded onto the floor. Loki made no move to tend to his wound. He wrote through the pain and the sorrow, pausing only a minute to refill the inkwell and dip his quill again.

It was at the final chapters were Loki began to feel that he was at a breaking point. His body felt weak, his left hand hung limp over the inkwell. The pages were splattered with blood and tears, and the normally quiet Loki let out sobs as he wrote of crimes and sacrifices that could not be forgiven. He wanted to give up, to stop, but willed himself to keep on writing.

For the dead could still be kept alive through a story as long as they were remembered.

After writing the last words, Loki let himself collapse back into his chair. He stared up at the dome shaped ceiling, exhausted, but relieved.

He bound the book together. It had a lovely emerald green cover with the words _Journey Into Mystery_ printed in golden letters in the middle. He walked over to the shelves and placed it on a low level, easily in reach.

His job done, Loki waited.

In a another universe, in another time, the story was finally told. And what a story it was! It was met with laughter and tears. Of words of praise and heart tugging sympathy. And the more popular the story of the god child grew, the more Loki felt at peace.

One day, he visited that universe, at a large gathering of costumed people where he could blend in. He walked among the crowds until he reached a table. There sat a storyteller, much like himself.

He handed his book to be signed, the original with the lovely green color and golden letters. 

"I've never seen this one before," the storyteller mused. "It's beautiful."

"You can say it's a one of a kind," Loki said with a smile.

Loki took the book and stared right into the storyteller's eyes.

"Thank you," he said. He blinked back tears in his eyes as he continued to speak. "Thank you so much for writing this."

"Aw no need to thank me," the storyteller smiled. "Thank you for reading."

And Loki walked away, holding _Journey Into Mystery_ close to his chest.

"No," he whispered as he glanced down at the book. "Thank you for listening."

**Author's Note:**

> _This is for everyone who has ever written about the character Loki. From Kieron Gillen and Al Ewing who have written the arcs that have touched us all to the fanfiction writers who expand and interpret on them. Thank you._


End file.
